


When You Come Home

by unicornpoe



Series: Stucky Bingo 2019 Fills [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Artist Steve Rogers, Avenger Bucky Barnes, Coffee, First Kiss, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Meet-Cute, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Self-Esteem Issues, Shy Bucky Barnes, Softness, of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-12 16:51:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19949614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicornpoe/pseuds/unicornpoe
Summary: “Nice to meet you, Bucky,” says Steve. He lets go of Bucky’s hand, and it doesn’t feel like a retreat, but it does feel like a promise: like the end of a sentence left uncapped, hanging there for one of them to finish later.There’s a cold wind blowing, but Bucky feels warm.“Please don’t try to come in here,” Bucky says. “There are alien corpses. It’s really gross, and really dangerous.”“Alright,” Steve says, and he’s not quite laughing aloud, but one lingers in the corners of his smile, in the way his blue eyes brighten.***Bucky Barnes is an Avenger. Steve Rogers buys him coffee.





	When You Come Home

**Author's Note:**

> This fills the square 'Sense of Belonging' for my Stucky Bingo card

The man is so small. That’s the first thing Bucky thinks when he sees him. Small, and— 

“Are you ok?” he asks, speaking without really meaning to. His voice is hoarse, shot from the dust and smoke and cold, sharp air he’s been inhaling all day, and it barely travels across the few inches between them. He clears his throat. It scrapes, raw. 

The man is looking up at him, is pushing against him, and Bucky realizes that he has a hand on the man’s skinny shoulder, holding him back. The bone is knobby beneath Bucky’s flesh palm and the layers of the man’s peacoat. Sharp. Breakable. 

“Please,” says the man, and his voice is deeper than Bucky would’ve guessed, and stronger than Bucky’s. He’s taking a pull from an inhaler that he digs out of his pocket with one hand, while the other latches onto Bucky’s wrist with cold, gloveless fingers, trying to shake his grip loose. He breathes like shards of glass. “I know somebody who lives up there—”

“Everyone is safe,” Bucky says. He knows he sounds disinterested, mechanical, but it’s better than the alternative. 

The man stares up at Bucky, and he stops pushing. Bucky’s fingers flex upon his narrow bone. 

“Is that something you just have to tell me?” the man asks, and Bucky can see the moment that recognition flickers to life behind his blue eyes; his stare gets a little more focused as he realizes who Bucky is. The Winter Soldier. An Avenger, now. 

Bucky lets himself relax slightly, but only slightly. He and the rest of the team managed to get the apartment building behind them evacuated before a pod of aliens that looked like something out of a novel descended upon this little corner of Brooklyn. It feels good to be able to deliver good news. 

“No,” Bucky says. “It’s the truth.” He likes the way the man settles at those words, but he doesn’t like the dry, grating cough that rattles up out of his lungs. He frowns. “You sure you’re ok?”

The man shrugs, and the movement alerts Bucky to the fact that he’s still touching his shoulder, soft, like an anchoring point. He lets his hand fall away. 

“Asthma,” says the man. There’s a little divot between his eyebrows, a creased up frown. He buries his inhaler back in the pocket of his tight black jeans, even though Bucky thinks he should probably go at that thing again, if the stutter in his chest means anything. “The smoke and dust makes it act up.”

Bucky nods. A jerking movement. Behind him, he can hear the shouts and movement of the clean up crew, and the whirr of Stark’s suit as he prepares to take off. It’s leaving time. 

“You can’t get in right now,” Bucky says, because the man is still standing there like he means to duck under the caution tape and weave through the alien carcasses without a thought, and he just. Can’t do that. “It’s blocked off. Might be a few days.”

Anger flashes across this small man’s face, something that pulls tight behind the thick rims of his glasses, makes him look like a force to be reckoned with even though his hair is soft and golden and falls across his forehead like sunlight. 

“What about the people who live here?” he snaps, crossing his arms over his chest and tipping his chin up, up, up to glare at Bucky. He is wearing a soft, thick sweater beneath his coat, and Bucky sort of wants to touch it. It’s dark green, like a loamy forest floor. “Did you all bother to think about them? Where will they go, with their home blocked off like this?”

“I took them to the Tower,” Bucky says quietly, slipping his hands into his pockets so that he doesn’t reach out. He thinks about herding all of those people through the streets, telling them that they could go and stay in Avengers Tower until their apartments were cleared, getting them clearance so that it was actually possible. And then coming back, and fighting until all he wants to do now is to sit here on the cold concrete and go to sleep. “They can stay there as long as they need.”

“Oh,” says the man, and all the fight seems to drain out of him. He’s still looking at Bucky, but it’s quieter now, gentler. 

“Tell your friend that I’m sorry,” Bucky mumbles. He doesn’t know why he’s still standing here talking. He should turn around, should get to work helping the staff clean up. He should go home, and patch up his bruised ribs. “I’m sorry.”

It’s cold out, going on evening, and a streetlight to their left flickers in the growing gloom. A wind stirs the man’s bright bangs, and sends another waft of smoke and dust and stench their way. 

“Thank you,” says the man, quiet. 

Bucky nods again. He shuffles back a few steps, looking down at the rubble beneath the soles of his boots. 

“My name’s Steve.”

He looks up. Steve looks… determined. That frown line is still there, but he doesn’t seem actually unhappy. Just serious. 

He’s holding his right hand out, palm up. Bucky can see a tattoo peeking out colorfully from beneath his sleeve. 

Bucky comes closer again and takes his hand, smiling into the way Steve shakes so firmly, liking the feel of his broad, flat palm. Steve’s skin is a little bit cold, a little bit dry. 

“Bucky,” he says, and lets his smile drift up until it meets Steve’s eyes. Steve, who probably only knows him by his title, that moniker that carries death and destruction and that Bucky hates. Steve, who is smiling back. 

“Nice to meet you, Bucky,” says Steve. He lets go of Bucky’s hand, and it doesn’t feel like a retreat, but it does feel like a promise: like the end of a sentence left uncapped, hanging there for one of them to finish later. 

There’s a cold wind blowing, but Bucky feels warm. 

“Please don’t try to come in here,” Bucky says. “There are alien corpses. It’s really gross, and really dangerous.”

“Alright,” Steve says, and he’s not quite laughing aloud, but one lingers in the corners of his smile, in the way his blue eyes brighten. He swipes at his bangs, grinning. “Ok. Noted.”

“Ok,” Bucky echoes. His chest feels fizzy, like there are bubbles popping right behind his sternum, and it’s odd. “Ok.”

Steve coughs again, and it’s loud enough that Bucky winces in sympathy, stepping a little closer and positioning himself in front of the worst of the breeze. 

“You should go,” Bucky says, lifting a hand to grip Steve’s shoulder again and then stopping because, why? Would he do that? “I have to help clean up.”

Steve is pressing a fist to his chest, his cheeks pink with either embarrassment or exertion, doubled over a little bit with the force of the coughs that wrack his thin frame. “Yeah,” he says between breaths, rubbing his chest over that soft sweater with the flat of his palm. “Yeah, alright.” He flicks a grin up at Bucky, and it’s beautiful, and Bucky is going to remember it for a long time. “See you ‘round, Bucky.”

Bucky watches Steve go, staring until he blends into the crowd around him. 

“See you around,” he murmurs. 

***

It’s completely dark by the time everything is all cleaned up, and Bucky is swaying on his feet as he exits the crime scene and begins his walk home. 

He doesn’t live in the Tower with the rest of the Avengers. He has an apartment there, of course, but he very rarely stays there. It’s too much, sometimes. He respects his team, and he knows that they respect them, but… he’s an outsider. A product of another time, a killer for more years than he has spent in his own mind, more of an anomaly than any of the rest of them. So he lives alone. 

Limping a little—he doesn’t remember turning his ankle, but a lot of injuries go unnoticed in the heat of a battle, it’s the only way to get through—Bucky slips under the caution tape for the last time, stumbling with exhaustion. It’s a seventeen block walk back to his own place. He could take a cab, but that seems like a waste of money, and he doesn’t feel like trying to deal with a chatty driver. He’ll just suck it up. 

“Hi, Bucky.”

Bucky lifts his head. He blinks, wondering if he’s finally reached the sleep deprived state of hallucinations. 

Steve smiles at him, coming closer. He’s wearing the same outfit as before, only his coat is buttoned up this time—good, it’s freezing—and he’s carrying two paper cups, the steam floating gently up into his face. 

He really is very beautiful. He passes beneath the streetlight and it catches in his hair, turning it shiny and mesmerizing to Bucky’s tired eyes. He can’t stop staring. 

“Thought you might want something warm,” says Steve, pressing one of the cups into Bucky’s metal hand. Their fingers knock together, thin soft flesh against thick sharp metal, a little  _ zing _ of sensation skittering across Bucky’s hand. “It’s cold out.”

“I,” says Bucky. He shuts his gaping mouth with a click. 

Here comes that not-quite laugh again, rising close enough to the surface that Bucky aches for it. Steve can’t be real.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says, taking the cup, cradling it between both hands and pressing it close to his chest. He blinks, heavy and slow. “But. Are you real?”

Steve’s smile fades away, and the expression on his face turns a little sad. “Yeah,” he says, cradling his own cup. “Real as anything. Promise.”

Bucky says, “Thank you.”

Steve says, “The address of this coffee shop is on the side of the cup. I usually go there on Wednesdays. I’d like company, though.”

He’s sure of himself, confident, nothing lagging in his speech at all. He is nothing like Bucky’s stuttered words, his reticence, his muffled, monosyllabic sentences; he is beautiful and bright and fashionable and kind, and Bucky is just an introverted, reformed assassin with social anxiety and a weapon for an arm. 

But Bucky finds himself nodding, even though Steve isn’t going to want him there after five minutes, finds himself nodding and melting a little under the pleased half-smile Steve sends his way. 

***

Wednesday comes with almost unbearable slowness. 

Bucky has no social life, does nothing except for fight when the Avengers need him to fight, and so the four days between meeting Steve and Wednesday are completely empty. He spends them watching the history channel, watering the battalion of succulents he’s amassed since coming to this century, and going back and forth between whether he should even take Steve up on his offer or not. 

On Wednesday morning Bucky wakes up with enough nerves in the pit of his stomach that he thinks he might toss the falafel he ate last night, and promptly convinces himself that he’s not going to go. Steve might be a little disappointed at first—but then again probably not, because he didn’t even give Bucky a time to meet him so he probably wasn’t even  _ serious _ and. And anyway even if he was serious, his disappointment won’t last long. He’ll forget about Bucky soon enough, if he hasn’t already. 

But then again… he did come back. Back to the scene of the battle. Back to Bucky. With coffee. 

In the end, Bucky dresses in his warmest, softest, most comforting sweater, a pair of skinny jeans that Natasha picked out for him a couple of months ago, and his combat boots, pulls his hair back with a soft velvet scrunchie that he got at a drugstore for one dollar, and retrieves the cup Steve had handed him from its place of honor on top of his dresser. He punches the address into his phone GPS with shaking hands. 

The coffee shop isn’t far at all from where Bucky lives, just a five minute walk, and he finds himself wondering if Steve lives close as well as he pushes open the glass-paned door and steps into the warm, cozy building. 

Heart racing, head down, Bucky scans the room of soft looking couches and little round tables. There aren’t very many people here so it doesn’t take long: he catches sight of Steve almost immediately, seated at a two-person table in the back right corner of the room.   
His golden head is bent as he looks down at a notebook on the table before him, long, graceful hands moving fluidly in the lines of a sketch that Bucky can’t see from here, even with the enhanced vision. He’s biting his bottom lip, concentrating; his glasses are slipping down the slightly crooked bridge of his nose. 

Beautiful. Beautiful beautiful beautiful. 

“Good morning!” says the barista brightly from behind the counter, smiling at Bucky, and Bucky starts a little, gaze whipping over to her. He can see Steve look up at the noise in his periphery. “What can I get for you today?” 

“Oh,” Bucky says, and his mind goes blank immediately, somehow completely devoid of any kind of human words, even ones not in his first language. “Um. I’m—”

“He’s with me, Leah,” says Steve, closer than he was—standing next to Bucky’s left elbow now, his face tipped up to look at him, his right hand slipping gently between Bucky’s arm and his torso, fingers curling loosely around his wrist. Bucky can’t stop staring at the spikey shadows his eyelashes make on the tops of his freckle-dusted cheeks. 

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says, quiet and just for him. There’s a smile on the pink crease of his lips, and a little bit of color on those cheeks now. “I’m glad you came.”

Bucky swallows and nods, and doesn’t pull away as Steve leads him back to his corner table. 

They’re quiet, mostly. Bucky brought a book about outer space and Steve has his sketchbook, and they sit at their little table and exist, separate but still together. Steve gets up to get a refill, and he buys Bucky a coffee, and they split a muffin that tastes good enough to make them both smile. Steve tells Bucky he is an artist. Bucky tells Steve that he reads three books a week. 

Halfway through the day, Steve rests the toe of his converse against Bucky’s instep. Bucky blushes hotly down at the pages of his book, but he traps Steve’s calf between his ankles, and hears Steve laugh quietly across the table. Neither of them move away. 

***

“Just Wednesdays?” Bucky asks shyly as they stand on the pavement outside the coffee shop, face-to-face. Bucky has to look down to meet Steve’s eyes, but Steve still seems bigger than him; more full of life, maybe. His smile is certainly brighter. 

“Thought I’d start out small,” Steve says, tipping his head a little as he speaks. “Work my way up. No, not just Wednesdays.” He clears his throat, and the fervent blue of his gaze skitters away for a second before latching Back onto Bucky. “I could give you my number. That way we could text each other, if we’re ever free at the same time.”

Quietly, Bucky feels something flaring to life in the hollow behind his ribs, and it’s hot and strong and real. 

“Ok,” he says, and hands over his phone.

***

They always meet more than once a week, although there’s no schedule to it. Bucky checks his phone obsessively for the first few weeks, waiting for a text from Steve, and by the time they’ve met about eight times, he finally works up the nerve to text Steve first. Steve smiles so much at him that day. Bucky almost can’t handle it. 

It’s funny, Bucky thinks, how nice it is to have this. Another person to talk to or sit quietly near, who smiles at him and doesn’t mind that he can’t always make words work the right way, who touches him sometimes on the wrist or the hand or the top of his head, who cares. Bucky hasn’t had anything this simple and yet so right in over seventy years.

_ (Or at all, _ says the voice in his head, but that is too much to think about right now).

***

“How’s work?” Steve asks him one day, and Bucky blinks a few times as he drags his gaze up from the pages of his book. 

Steve is staring at him, his chin resting in his hand as he leans upon the tabletop. There’s a faint little smile on his lips, and when Bucky glances down at Steve’s open sketchbook, he can see that Steve’s been drawing him how he was: book propped upon the table, coffee in hand, a few strands of hair hanging down around his face. Bucky blushes hot. 

“Um,” he says, shifting a bit in his chair. He tucks his hair behind his ears. “What was that?”

Steve laughs at him, soft and low enough that it doesn’t sting, and one of his hands nudges against Bucky’s where they’re resting next to their coffee cups. In a bold move, Bucky traps Steve’s hand beneath his own for half a second, and then snatches his back. 

“Work,” repeats Steve, and the word registers more firmly in Bucky’s mind this time. “I was just asking how it is.”

Oh. Bucky shrugs, words feeling suddenly thick in his throat. 

He doesn’t like talking about work.

Bucky doesn’t belong anywhere, but he thinks maybe he could belong here, at Steve’s side sometimes, if Steve wanted him to. Bringing work into their conversations would make Steve remember all over again who he is, would blare it into his mind like a megaphone, and Bucky doesn’t want that. 

Steve might not want to sit here with him anymore, if he thought too hard about who Bucky does. What Bucky is.

What Bucky’s done. 

“Hey, Buck,” Steve says, and he’s leaning across the table now, fingers cool and steady as he brushes them against Bucky’s cheek. Bucky’s eyes flicker shut without him meaning for them to. “It’s ok, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Steve tells him softly. 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky mutters. He keeps his eyes shut. Steve is so kind to him. “It’s just.”

Steve’s fingers slide up to Bucky’s temple, and then Steve is cupping the side of Bucky’s face in his palm, and Bucky just wilts into it a little bit, grateful. 

“You don’t have to explain anything to me, Bucky,” Steve tells him, and Bucky knows he means it. 

***

Winter descends upon them, and while it doesn’t bring snow at first, the beginning December is harsh, and the air nips up under all of Bucky’s layers to bite at his skin. He hustles into the coffee shop, giving Leah a little wave as he moves to his and Steve’s usual table in the back, shivering. He doesn’t like to be cold. 

Steve isn’t here yet, but Bucky doesn’t worry. Steve works at an art supplies store since his original work doesn’t always bring in enough to make rent, and he was on a shift this morning. He’s probably just running late from that. 

Bucky orders for them both, and carries their drinks back to the table. He knows the cups retain heat, but he wraps his scarf around Steve’s drink to keep it warm, anyway. Just in case. 

Steve comes in right before Bucky’s truly started to worry, but Bucky breathes out a sigh of relief when he sees him come in, anyway. He’s bundled up against the chill, in his peacoat and a pair of leather gloves and a big, mustard yellow scarf that nearly comes to his eyes, and it takes him thirty seconds to get all of it off. 

When he does, he collapses into the chair across from Bucky, his head dropping forward onto the table with a thunk as he lets out a sigh. 

“Uh,” says Bucky, smiling at the back of Steve’s messy-haired head. He feels helpless in the face of—of  _ Steve.  _ Bucky likes him. Bucky likes him so much. “Hi, Steve.”

Steve groans loudly in response. 

“Bad day?” Bucky asks, covertly unwrapping Steve’s coffee and placing his own scarf on the back of his chair. It’s a bit silly that he did that, and he half-hopes Steve didn’t see. “I got you coffee so. That should help.”

Steve sits up slowly, and he smiles at Bucky—but he looks tired, dark circles beneath his eyes, skin paler than usual. 

Bucky frowns.  _ He’s _ supposed to be the one with eyebags and a complexion like a corpse. 

“Not bad,” Steve says, slumped in his chair, forearms resting on the table. His glasses are crooked, and it’s adorable, and Bucky can barely keep from reaching across and fixing them for him. “Just long. I’m tired.” He tangles their legs together beneath the table, and Bucky smiles down into his drink. “Thanks for the coffee, Buck.”

“Mmhmm,” Bucky says. He watches Steve closely as he pulls his sketchbook out of his bag, noticing the way his movements seem to drag more than usual. He’s slower. Heavier. 

Bucky’s getting ready to ask him if he’s ok when Steve doubles over with a cough that sounds like it’s hollowing out his chest. 

He’s out of his chair and by Steve’s side in an instant, hovering uselessly, placing one hand on Steve’s back and crouching down to his level. Steve’s spine shows, bumpy and with a slight curve through the thin material of his long sleeved t-shirt, every vertebrae sharp and evident beneath Bucky’s palm. 

Bucky never really notices how small Steve is anymore because his personality is so big, but now, Bucky sees that the length of his fingers and palm is nearly equal to the width of Steve’s boney ribcage. He is almost terrifyingly tiny, and Bucky wants to scoop him up in his arms and tuck Steve into his own chest to keep him safe. 

“Sorry,” Steve gasps, sitting back against his chair and subsequently into the warm circle of Bucky’s arm. His mouth turns down at the corners; he looks frustrated as he tries like hell to catch his breath. 

“Steve,” Bucky says, and uses his other hand to rub a slow, soothing circle over Steve’s rattling chest. 

“It’s the damn cold weather,” Steve says. He lets Bucky touch him, and Bucky gets a little braver, sliding his arm fully around Steve’s shoulders until he can feel the smaller man’s heartbeat pounding through his chest and through his back. “Gets into my lungs. ‘M fine though, Buck.”

Bucky doesn’t comment on that last part, because it’s clearly a lie and he has no patience for that. “You need to go home and rest?” he asks reluctantly. He doesn’t want Steve to leave, of course he doesn’t; but he wants even less for Steve to get really sick just because Bucky is lonely and wants his friend to stay. 

Steve hesitates long enough that Bucky knows what the answer is going to be before it even falls from his lips. 

“Probably,” Steve says, and sneezes a few times into the crook of his elbow, accidentally jostling Bucky away. Bucky stands, but he keeps his hand on Steve’s back. Steve looks up at him, and he looks so fucking annoyed that Bucky cracks a tiny, fond smile. There’s a fire in this one. “I work tomorrow, and I don’t wanna call off again…  _ Ugh. _ I’m sorry, Buck.”

Bucky shakes his head, helping Steve gather his things back up, and putting on his own outerwear. There’s no point in staying here if Steve is leaving. 

“I could.” Bucky stops, and hands Steve his coffee as he pulls his gloves on. “I could walk you home, if you want,” he says, all in a rush like if he says it fast enough, maybe Steve won’t fully hear him and decline. 

But Steve looks up at him, and he smiles, and he leans into the arm Bucky slings around his shoulder, and he says yes. 

***

There are three full flights of stairs leading up to Steve’s apartment, which Bucky thinks is ridiculous but doesn’t comment upon—not even when Steve has to stop and use his inhaler halfway through, already short of breath from the coughing fits he keeps having. 

No, Bucky doesn’t say anything. He makes a point to see what strings Stark can pull to get an elevator installed in this building, though. 

“Sorry, Buck,” Steve says again, once they’re stopped outside his door. He turns to face Bucky, back against the door knob, and Bucky sways into his warmth while at the same time trying not to crowd too close. He’s pale, a little shaky. He looks supremely pissed off. “Didn’t mean to make you run all over Brooklyn for no reason today.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Bucky says. He rests the back of his hand against Steve’s forehead, just like he can vaguely remember his mother doing to him before the war and the fall and HYDRA whenever Bucky got sick, checking for a temperature. He doesn’t remember a lot of things from before, but he remembers that. 

Steve’s skin is a little sweaty, and warmer than it should be. 

And Bucky doesn’t want to leave him alone. Not because he doesn’t think Steve can take care of himself—he’s a grown man, he’s definitely gotten sick before—but because Bucky just, inexplicably, worries about him. Bucky wants him to be ok. 

“Steve,” Bucky says, letting his hand fall from Steve’s forehead to rest on one knobby shoulder, watching the feathery brush of Steve’s eyelashes as he blinks. “Do you want me to stay?”

Steve hesitates, but it’s half hearted. “Just for a little while?” he asks, and his fingers tangle in Bucky’s coat sleeve. 

“Yeah, Steve. Just for a little while.”

Steve lets Bucky into his apartment, and they hang up their coats and scarves and gloves on the hall tree before they move inside completely. Not really thinking, Bucky places a hand upon the small of Steve’s back as they step into the tiny living room, and Steve leans into him slightly. 

“Go get changed,” Bucky says, face turned into the top of Steve’s head, lips just brushing the soft strands of his hair. “I’ll make you some tea.”

Unusually compliant, Steve just nods, and shuffles off to do just that. He must be feeling really poorly to listen to Bucky without so much as a quip. 

By the time he comes back, dressed in sweatpants that hang low on his prominent hipbones and a too-big t-shirt, Bucky’s boiled a pot of tea and brought two steaming mugs of it over to the coffee table, grabbed a bottle of cough syrup and a box of tissues off of the counter, and has a couple of pillows and blankets sitting in one corner of the couch, ready for Steve’s use. Steve smiles wearily at Bucky when he sees it. 

“Sure know how to treat a guy, don’t you,” Steve murmurs, and it’s half-tease half-thanks, evident in the way he squeezes Bucky’s shoulder gently in passing. He curls up against the pillows, letting Bucky drape one of the blankets over his legs and waist with a fond smile, and downs a spoonful of cough syrup before he’s fully settled in. 

“Want something to eat?” Bucky asks, watching Steve carefully. Bucky has one arm draped along the back of the couch and he’s leaning over Steve slightly, Steve’s socked feet pressing into his thigh; Steve looks half asleep already, eyelids heavy and mostly closed, a feverish flush high on his cheekbones. His mouth is soft, and pink, and round. 

“No thanks,” Steve mumbles. His head is tipped back against a pillow, and his lithe fingers grip the mug of tea closely. “Not really hungry.”

“Ok,” Bucky says, squeezing Steve’s ankle slightly, and makes a note to check Steve’s fridge before he leaves, to make sure he’s got something in there that’s fast and easy. 

“‘S just a cold, Buck,” Steve mumbles, but even as he’s saying that his eyes drift shut, and it doesn’t take long before he’s asleep. 

Bucky stays on after that. He’s not really sure why: it’s just that he has one hand on Steve’s ankle, and Steve makes a soft little noise as Bucky takes the mug away from him so it won’t spill, and he really is so beautiful, his hair messed up and his color high, his chest rising and falling slowly with sleepy breath. It’s so hard to leave him. 

Bucky takes Steve’s hand in his before he gets up, and brushes a kiss over his knuckles; light, barely there. 

***

A few days before Christmas, Bucky gets called out on a mission. 

He gets the message right as he’s preparing to go meet Steve, and he curses as he reads it. Someone’s blown up a few warehouses full of Stark Tech waiting to be shipped out in Prague: might be aliens, might be HYDRA. The Avengers are needed immediately. 

He texts Steve on his way to the Tower. He doesn’t want to, but he wants Steve to worry even less. 

_ Got called away on a mission. Not sure how many days. Won’t have cell service while I’m gone. Say hi to Leah for me. I’m sorry, Steve. -JB _

Steve answers him right as he’s getting out of his Uber, and Bucky reads it as he’s stumbling inside. 

_ Nothing to apologize for. Be careful, Buck. I’ll miss you.  _

***

Bucky gets back at three am on a Saturday, bruised and battered and so exhausted that he can barely limp to the Uber he calls. 

He texts Steve immediately, too tired to really register the time, and his fingers move slowly across the keys. 

_ Home. Imiss you  _

Fifteen seconds later, his phone vibrates in his hand, and he peels his eyes open to see the screen flashing with an incoming call.  _ Steve.  _

“Hello,” Bucky murmurs, letting his head fall back against the seat and his eyes close again. 

“ _ Bucky, _ ” says Steve, and  _ oh.  _ His chest feels like it’s full of dimly glowing embers at the sound of that low voice, so dear to him, so close-sounding in his ear. He misses his friend with an almost powerful ache. “God, Buck, I miss you too. Are you alright? Are you at home? Can I—can I come see you?”

“In an Uber,” Bucky manages, talking a little slower than usual so that his exhaustion doesn’t slur the words beyond comprehension. He doesn’t answer any of the other questions, because they wouldn’t be answers Steve would like. 

“Come to my place,” Steve says immediately. His breath sounds strong and even, and it lulls Bucky. “Come home.”

“Ok,” Bucky whispers, eyes shut tight. His metal fingers flex upon the flimsy plastic of his phone case, and he leans forward to tell the driver Steve’s address. 

“Ok,” Steve repeats, breathless. “Ok, Bucky. I’ll see you soon.”

***

Steve is standing on his stoop when Bucky pulls up; he’s dressed in pajamas, the pants billowing a bit where they’re shoved down the tops of his boots, and he’s wrapped up in his big coat on top. Snow is falling, catching like dust in the strands of his hair. 

“You’ll get sick again,” Bucky says, and Steve makes a shushing sound at him and pulls him in, wraps him up in his strong arms, holds him close with his lips pressed to Bucky’s forehead. 

Bucky shudders, and clings to the fabric bunched up around Steve. He feels like he’s sinking into a warm bath, curling up in bed, relaxing into the one place that he truly belongs. Coming  _ home.  _

“Come inside, Buck,” Steve murmurs softly to him, so Bucky lets Steve pull him up the stairs and into his apartment, even though every joint in his body screams along the way. “That’s it, baby,” Steve says, and Bucky shivers at the name, but he’s too worn down to comment upon it. He just presses his nose against that hot patch of skin in the crook of Steve’s neck, breathes in the spicy-sweet smell of him, shivers. 

Bucky’s still in his uniform. It clings to him uncomfortably, stiff with blood and singed in places. He drifts in and out of awareness as Steve helps him pull it off, until he’s just in his boxers and the soft t-shirt he always wears beneath. Bucky starts to shake with cold, and so Steve leads him to bed, helps him up onto the mattress, covers him with layers and layers of blankets and then burrows down into his side with a muffled sigh. 

Steve’s hands are in Bucky’s hair. It feels so good. 

“What happened?” Steve asks gently. He strokes one hand up and down Bucky’s spine, skirting his tender ribs on instinct. “You were gone so long…”

“HYDRA,” says Bucky, and then he can’t say anything else. He knows by now that Steve doesn’t blame Bucky for what he did when he was the Winter Soldier, but he still doesn’t like to talk about his missions any more than he has to, and in any case he’s too tired to elaborate further tonight. 

“You’re home now,” Steve says. The words vibrate against Bucky’s throat, and it sounds like he’s reassuring Bucky just as much as he is reassuring himself. “You’re safe. I’ll take care of you.”

Bucky falls asleep like that: tangled up in Steve, warm and safer than he has felt in lifetimes. 

***

Morning—and light shines across the bedspread, shines across Bucky’s face, shines across Steve as he looks across the pillow at Bucky. 

He’s as solemn as he always is, his big blue eyes round and serious, but there’s an aching fondness behind it all that catches Bucky’s breath. 

“Good morning,” Steve says, low. His lips tip up into the smallest smile. 

“Steve,” Bucky whispers as Steve’s fingers brush the edge of his jaw, slide up until they curve around his cheek. “May I kiss you?”

Steve’s smile breaks across his face, matching the sunshine beam-for-beam. 

Beautiful. 

“Yes, please,” he says. 

Bucky inches across the pillowcase carefully, eyes flickering shut as he presses his lips against Steve’s for the very lightest of kisses. They linger there for a second, and Bucky opens his eyes as he pulls away. 

He hasn’t kissed someone since before he fell from that train. 

“Bucky,” says Steve, his hand still cradling Bucky’s face. 

“Mmm,” hums Bucky. 

Steve levers himself up a little bit, shifting closer on the mattress, and Bucky completes the movement for him, hooking both of his arms around Steve’s waist and pulling him down so that he’s draped on top of Bucky’s body like the world’s most wonderful weighted blanket. 

“Your ribs—” Steve starts, even as he drifts forward to drop a kiss on the corner of Bucky’s mouth. 

“I heal fast,” Bucky says, and he has never been more thankful for the serum that courses through his veins. 

“Good,” Steve murmurs against his mouth, already moving back in. 

He kisses Bucky slowly, carefully, with every last bit of concentration that his small body contains, and Bucky can feel it down to the marrow of his bones. Steve’s mouth is like hot, wet silk against Bucky’s lips, his cheek, his jaw, his neck; his hands hold Bucky so gently, touching him like he matters, touching him like he’s worth all of this. 

“When you come home,” Steve says, framing Bucky’s face with his lovely hands, raining kisses down upon him with a tenderness that Bucky cannot fathom, “promise that you’ll come home to me.”

Bucky reaches up to him. Bucky kisses him through a smile. Where else would he go? 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! i'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/unicornpoe)


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